


Embrium

by originally



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, Hate Sex, Infidelity, M/M, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-04 07:38:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13359609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/originally/pseuds/originally
Summary: They're at each other's throat constantly, bickering over silly things, but all Dorian can think about is a crude rough hand grabbing his hair as he's taken roughly from behind. He can't stop thinking about how warm Blackwall must be, and hothouse orchids thrive in the heat.[Crossposting two oldkink memefills]





	Embrium

Blackwall sheathed his sword and held out his gauntleted arm to Dorian for inspection, grimacing at the scorched steel. “I swear by all that is holy, Dorian, if you don't start aiming those fireballs better, it won't be templar swords you have to watch out for. That one almost cooked me.”

Dorian made a dismissive sound as he straightened his ruffled robes. “If you could see fit to remove your ungainly bulk from my line of sight, perhaps I would be able to actually focus on the enemy.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I'll certainly be more considerate of my position the next time I'm bodily blocking a bloody templar from removing your arrogant head.”

“Andraste's ass,” the Inquisitor broke in, “you'll have every lyrium-crazed fool in half a league down on us, bickering at the top of your sodding voices like that. Give it a rest.”

Dorian glanced down at her, feeling strangely guilty. It wasn't like he intended to bicker with Blackwall, exactly, but he just couldn't help himself. The man was infuriating. He was low born and uncouth, had the table manners of a blind qunari and the bathing habits of a druffalo, and clearly had an equally low opinion of Dorian. He sighed, and offered Cadash an apologetic quirk of his lips. She was the one who would have to put up with Blackwall in their tent later, after all.

Blackwall grunted noncommittally, and bent over to examine one of the templar corpses. Dorian hated himself for noticing the way his supple leather britches clung to his arse as his mail coat rode up. Ugh. It had just been too long; he was definitely not attracted to a man who looked like a bear and smelled worse. He let out a snort of derision.

“Something amusing to you?” Blackwall said, straightening up and rounding on Dorian with an annoyed expression on his face.

Cole chose that moment to speak. “He grabs his hair and pins him against the castle wall. He's warm, so warm. Magic sparks between them, crackling, dangerous.”

There were several heartbeats worth of ringing silence.

“ _Fasta vass_. It is not necessary for you to broadcast every thought you find,” Dorian snapped. He chanced a glance at Blackwall, who had said nothing. The man was glaring off into the distance with an expression like he was chewing a wasp. Well, fine. He was uncomfortable knowing that Dorian had entertained a few stray thoughts about him. Nothing unusual there.

The Inquisitor said, far too brightly, “Let's make camp.”

-

The evening was awful. Blackwall sat as far away from Dorian as humanly possible whilst remaining close to the fire and Cadash. She looked more a dwarf than ever, tucked in against Blackwall’s massive chest. He had removed his layers of mail, making him seem softer, and he was gesturing broadly with his hands as he regaled her with some story. Such large hands, Dorian couldn't help noticing. And they would be rough with years of training with sword and shield. He had once spent the night with a labourer who had hands such as those, big and calloused and deft for all that. He closed his eyes against the memory of the way they'd felt, the stretch and burn as those thick fingers had opened him up, the way he'd writhed and begged for more and more. Would Blackwall be like that? Would he open Dorian agonisingly slowly, pushing his fingers in one by one until Dorian was incoherent with need?

When Dorian opened his eyes again, he found that Cole was staring at him with a deeply shocked expression. He opened his mouth.

“Do _not_ ,” Dorian said sharply, and that made the others turned to look at him too. He felt heat rise to his cheeks.

Cadash grinned. “More pleasant thoughts, Dorian?”

Blackwall blanched next to her and that really was the last straw.

"I'm going to turn in,” Dorian announced. “Wake me when it's my turn to take watch.”

“I'll be sure to cough loudly before I come in,” Cadash said, and her laughter followed him all the way to his tent.

-

Once he started thinking about it, it became impossible to stop. They still argued at the slightest provocation, but now Dorian couldn't help but imagine Blackwall resolving their disputes by wrapping his massive hands around Dorian’s hips and bending him over something. A nearby tree stump. A convenient altar. The Commander’s precious war table, for fuck's sake. Anything. The man would be a furnace behind him: broad-chested and solid and, blast it, warm. He hadn't been properly warm since he arrived in the fucking south. He wouldn't be a gentle lover, either, Dorian had decided now. He would be just as rough and uncouth as he was in everything else. He would take his own pleasure in Dorian's body, would spear him on his undoubtedly huge cock and hold him down, sparing no thought for Dorian as he drove into him again and again. He would use him, leave him wrung out and desperate with bite marks on his back and bruises on his hips. Dorian shivered, irritated with himself. The thought of an inconsiderate lover shouldn't make his cock stiffen.

Worse, while to find oneself fixated on a crude, hairy oaf was bad enough, that said oaf was courting one's truest friend was, well. It was driving Dorian slowly mad, frankly. He desperately didn’t want to hurt her. He had tried to draw on his memories of previous pleasant brief encounters, or to imagine the Commander instead... but Cullen’s curly hair kept morphing into a shaggy, dark mass, his handsomely stubbled chin into a bushy, bristly nightmare of a beard. Dorian sighed as he made his way across the courtyard. He was becoming morose; perhaps that bottle of wine with the chess game had been a bad idea. He paused outside the Herald’s Rest, letting his head thunk back onto the cold stone wall and contemplating whether or not to go in. Perhaps a wide-eyed stableboy or some anonymous gruff soldier was what he needed to get this obsession out of his system.

“You'll mess up your hair.”

Dorian's eyes snapped open. “I'm not in the mood to spar with you, Blackwall.”

“No? Are you sure about that?”

“What in the world are you talking about?”

Blackwall took a step closer and Dorian pressed himself more firmly against the wall. Magic sparked at his fingertips, ready and waiting just under his skin.

"I've seen the way you look at me. Like I'm some piece of filth you scraped off your silk slipper.”

Dorian snorted. “As if you haven't made your own opinion of me perfectly clear. Tevinter this and ‘your kind’ that.”

Blackwall took yet another step into Dorian's space, placing his arm against the wall by Dorian’s head and boxing him in. Dorian sucked in a sharp breath. His instinct was to produce a fireball and flee; this man could snap his neck with his bare hands. His blood was rushing and every part of Dorian’s being was screaming _danger_ , but he was transfixed. This close, he could see every scar on Blackwall’s skin. He had a sudden mad urge to trace one with his tongue. This was insanity. Was he in the Fade?

“Have you taken leave of what little remains of your senses, Blackwall?” Dorian said, shaking his head to clear it. “ _Fasta vass_. Too many blows to the head, I think. Get out of my way.” He shoved Blackwall in the chest as hard as he could.

It was about as much use as shoving a mountain. Blackwall growled and Dorian reached instinctively for a barrier, but as the blue glow of it danced around them, Blackwall breached the final few inches of space and crushed their mouths together.

It was not a gentle kiss. There was no finesse to it, only pure, unbridled need. Dorian tasted copper as Blackwall’s teeth scraped over his lower lip and his tongue slid against Dorian's, slick and hot and insistent. The beard was rough and wiry against his skin, just as he had imagined it would be, and he heard himself moan into Blackwall’s mouth.

Blackwall pulled away suddenly, looking dazed.

Dorian let out an embarrasing soft whine, lust and anger and guilt all doing battle inside him. “Blight take you, man, what are you doing? I thought you were disgusted by the thought of me. And Cadash—”

“Shut up,” Blackwall growled. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. You make me insane. Cole’s been around, saying things, and they’re not mine—the war table, Dorian—I thought that first one was mine, but it was yours. Maker’s balls, but I hate you,” he finished, and kissed Dorian again, dirty and deep.

He had been right about the heat, Dorian thought, a little hysterically. Blackwall was pressing him into the wall, his body almost burning where it touched Dorian's. He was hard in his britches; Dorian could feel that too. The last shred of resolve that he'd had left snapped like a bowstring pulled too taut.

He turned his head, broke the kiss. Blackwall grunted but Dorian only said, “Not here. I want—but we can't, not here. Anyone could see.”

The barn was closest, and Dorian felt a little thrill at the crudeness of it, the prospect of rutting in a pile of hay like animals. Blackwall kept his hand possessively on Dorian’s shoulder as they walked, steered him in and slammed the doors shut. He spent two heartbeats apparently deliberating and then swept everything off the workbench, half-finished griffon and tools and all. Then he grabbed Dorian roughly by the hair and shoved him down onto the bench, hiking up his robes and almost tearing off his small clothes in his haste. Blackwall spat on his hand unceremoniously, and Dorian gasped as one of Blackwall’s thick, calloused fingers brushed against his entrance for a moment before pushing inside.

“No hesitation,” Dorian marvelled. “Why, Blackwall, you— _kaffas_ , you've done this before.”

“You're hardly some blushing maiden either, Tevinter.” He pushed a second finger in beside the first, much gentler than Dorian had been anticipating, taking the time to let him stretch and crooking them to find that sweet spot inside that made Dorian moan. “Sweet Andraste, look at how you take that.”

“If I'm taking it, I think perhaps you might use my name.”

“I think perhaps you might shut up,” Blackwall snapped, getting his free hand back in Dorian’s hair and pulling until he yelped.

“You'll have to—” Dorian ground out, gasping and feeling his magic flare. He clamped down on it. “You'll have to try harder than that. Is that the best you've got?”

The hand in Dorian's hair vanished, and he twisted around to watch Blackwall unlace his britches. He had imagined this so many times before and the reality was certainly not disappointing. Blackwall’s cock was big: thick and leaking at the tip. Blackwall spat on his fingers again and palmed himself, spreading the slickness.

“Get on with it,” he said, canting his hips. “I haven't got all day.” He threw a smirk over his shoulder, the one he knew antagonised Blackwall.

Blackwall growled, low and primal, and shoved Dorian back down onto the bench. He yanked his fingers out; Dorian barely had a moment to adjust before Blackwall was sheathing his cock in Dorian’s body up to the hilt, making him cry out. He set a brutal pace from the start, pounding and relentless and perfect.

“Is this what you want?” he grunted between thrusts. “You're doing it on purpose, I know you are. Trying to rile me. You want me to be a brute. You like slumming it, you with your silk knickers and your airs and your—Maker, Dorian!—your airs and your graces.”

Dorian let out a stream of Tevene curses, adding some Fereldan ones too for good measure.

"Ha," Blackwall said, triumphant, "not so fancy now, are you?" He reached a hand under Dorian’s robes to grasp his cock. It only took a few rough strokes before he was coming over Blackwall's hand, chasing the wave of white-hot pleasure that rolled over his body. Blackwall grunted, thrust a few more times and came too, hot inside of Dorian. He flopped down inelegantly, pressing Dorian into the workbench, and Dorian relished being surrounded and filled by all that heat.

After a few minutes, Blackwall straightened up and started re-lacing his britches. “Right, well,” he said, “that's that, then. Out of our systems.”

Dorian wilted, just slightly, before he took hold of himself and set his face into his usual smirk. Fucking Blackwall out of his system had been what he'd been looking for, after all.

“Obviously,” he said, standing and adjusting his robes with a fierce determination not to wince. “That's that. Goodnight, Blackwall.” He paused in the doorway, looked back over his shoulder. “Do give my love to the Inquisitor.”

He stalked out into the night and didn't once turn to see if Blackwall was watching him go.

-

In hindsight, Dorian probably shouldn't have been surprised when Blackwall turned up at the door to his quarters a week later, agitated and looking over his shoulder every few moments as if he were being chased. Dorian looked him up and down and fixed him with his best insolent stare, leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe with eyebrows raised.

“Are you going to let me in?” Blackwall demanded, wringing his hands.

Dorian allowed his eyebrows to rise a little higher. “That rather depends on what it is you want.”

Blackwall leaned in until his beard was tickling Dorian's skin and growled, in a low voice that went directly to Dorian's cock, “You know what I want.”

Wordlessly he stepped back and allowed Blackwall to barrel past him; the great lummox promptly paced to the centre of the room to stand there wringing his hands inside instead of outside. Nothing about this was a good idea. Dorian should have shut the door in Blackwall’s stupid, hairy face. Instead, he shut it behind him, and turned around to face him.

“I'm assuming that the Inquisitor doesn't know you're here.” Dorian knew that the woman in question was not in Skyhold at the moment, which was presumably why Blackwall had felt bold enough to seek him out.

“Of course she doesn't. It's not— this isn't love, Dorian, it's a tumble between two men. It means nothing.”

Dorian barked a laugh. “Love? No, I'm well aware. As if I could feel anything for you but the utmost contempt.”

“You were singing a different tune last time when you were begging for my cock. I fucked that smug smile right off your face.”

Dorian's insides turned over at that, but he worked to keep his disdainful expression in place. “My dear fellow,” he said, injecting that mocking undertone into his voice that he knew Blackwall hated, “it seems to me that you're the one who slunk over here with your tail between your legs like a kicked Fereldan d-“

“If the word ‘dog’ passes your pampered princeling lips, I swear I'll-“

“You'll what?”

Dorian's blood was rushing. This was it, this was the game that they were playing. A dangerous game that he would feel guilty about in the morning, but right now this was foreplay, and Dorian’s body was responding. Fuck, but he hadn't even been touched yet; the weight of mingled memory and fantasy was doing the work for him.

“I'll shut you up,” Blackwall said, and took a step toward him.

Dorian twisted his lips into a smirk. "I'd like to see you try.”

With a wordless cry of frustration, Blackwall crossed the short distance between them and slammed into Dorian, bringing their lips together in a kiss that was more like a duel to the death: all teeth and bruising sucks and neither of them giving quarter to the other. It was familiar now, but it was the heat of the man that Dorian remembered more than anything else, his skin warm as a furnace where he pressed Dorian back into the door. When they broke apart, it gave Dorian a feeling of triumph to see that Blackwall's lips were bitten bloody and swollen under his ridiculous beard, and that he was panting hard.

Dorian savagely tore undone the laces on Blackwall’s britches and reached his hand down to grasp Blackwall’s cock. It was as big as he remembered, half hard already, and Dorian let his nails scrape over the head as he wrapped his fingers around it.

Blackwall hissed and bucked his hips. “Fuck you.”

“You're letting a mage touch your cock, Blackwall,” Dorian murmured, making his tone low and sensual even if the words were sharpened into points. “Be grateful it wasn't fire.”

Suddenly, Blackwall’s hand was on Dorian’s throat. Dorian flailed and gasped for a breath that couldn't come.

“Don't think I wouldn't do it. All it would take is the tiniest bit of pressure.”

He let go abruptly, and Dorian refused to give him the satisfaction of massaging what were undoubtedly livid red fingermarks on his throat. He kept one hand firmly pressed to Blackwall’s chest, but allowed a little spark of electricity to pass through the hand on Blackwall’s cock, making him jump and curse again.

“If you try to kill me, we’ll go down together in a firestorm, that I can promise you.” Dorian smirked. “Wouldn't that be a marvellous thing for the Inquisition to have to explain. Dog lord Warden and ‘pampered Tevinter princeling’”— he spat Blackwall's words back at him— “fuck and burn down half a castle. Who do you think she'd mourn most— you or me?”

Blackwall made a noise like a wounded bear, and in an instant he had flipped him around and yanked down Dorian's britches and smallclothes so forcefully that he heard something tear. Dorian barely had chance to brace his hands against the door to stop his face ending up full of splinters.

“I’m going to fuck you until this whole castle hears you scream for me,” Blackwall growled into his ear, “and if you want anything slick, by the Maker, you’d better get it slick yourself.”

Dorian turned his head and opened his mouth to respond, but Blackwall pushed two of his big fingers into it. Dorian resisted the temptation to bite down and suckled instead, swirling his tongue over and between the fingers with an obscene wet sound. Blackwall closed his eyes and Dorian felt a little thrill of victory; he knew how good he looked with his mouth full, he had been told many times before. He desperately wanted to rattle Blackwall, to gain the upper hand even as he wanted the man to take him roughly. This was a game that no one was going to win.

“Maker’s bloody balls,” Blackwall said as he pulled his fingers from Dorian's mouth and dropped his hand to his bare arse instead.

“Eloquent as always,” Dorian started to say, but his words were cut off by the unseemly grunt that forced its way out as Blackwall pushed both fingers into him painfully, without warning. He hissed in a breath, focusing on relaxing his muscles around the sting and the stretch. “ _Vishante kaffas_ , you are an animal.”

"And you're a primped and puffed-up Tevinter prick who thinks he's better than the rest of us,” Blackwall snarled. “Well, you're not. You'll rut in the dirt with me like any common whore.”

“Would it make you feel better if you were paying me for this?” Dorian ground out, pressing himself shamelessly back onto Blackwall’s fingers.

“You wouldn't be worth the copper,” Blackwall said, but the hitch in his breath gave the lie to his words.

Dorian scoffed. “You're not fooling anyone but yourself. You've dreamed of this. Ever since the last time, else you wouldn't be back. You want me, Blackwall, and when you wrap your hand around your cock at night, it's me you see, not her.”

The fist caught him by surprise, taking him right across the cheek. He laughed, spitting out blood onto the stone floor.

"My, such aggression.” He lifted his hand from the door to show Blackwall where the flare of surprised magic had charred a handprint into it. “You're not a templar, Blackwall. You should be careful.”

“If I burn, you burn,” said Blackwall, lining up his cock and pushing into Dorian almost dry. That was enough to make him scream, and he let fire spark at his fingertips again until Blackwall grabbed both of Dorian's hands in one of his big ones and pinned them above his head.

The sex had even less finesse than last time, primal and animal without even the slightest hint of tenderness. Blackwall's thrusts were erratic and he sucked bruises into the back of Dorian’s neck as he fucked him. The wood was rough under Dorian’s cheek and Blackwall’s grip on his hands felt almost hard enough to break his fingers. He was going to be covered in more marks than his own rudimentary healing magic would be able to fix. For some reason, that thought made his cock jump, achingly hard and neglected as it was.

“Fuck you,” Blackwall said again, “fuck you, you stuck up son of a whore, fuck you for making me—fuck, Dorian, Dorian—“

It was his name more than anything else that drove Dorian over the edge, the desperation in Blackwall’s voice that told Dorian he’d won, and then he was gasping and coming, as Blackwall pulled out and finished himself off, spilling across Dorian’s heated skin.


End file.
